


Life is not a John Hughes Movie (but in your eyes I am complete)

by Killbothtwins



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bigfoot - Freeform, Boyd is alive and also my son, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Mission Fic, No Romance, Rom-Com without the rom, Spoilers: Boyd and Stiles don't fall in love :(, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 19:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16101980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killbothtwins/pseuds/Killbothtwins
Summary: Boyd needs a favor of rom-com proportions. Stiles seduces Boyd into friendship. Also, Bigfoot is there.





	Life is not a John Hughes Movie (but in your eyes I am complete)

Boyd and Stiles aren’t necessarily friends. They’re not _enemies,_ either, though. Stiles likes to think of their relationship as a sort of mutual wariness. He likes Boyd, really, he does. Boyd’s never actively tried to kill him, which is more than he can say about most of the people in his life, including his best friend. Boyd’s cool. Non-murderous, especially compared to most of the werewolves he knows. They were tortured in a basement together, so, bonding.

Still, that doesn’t mean Stiles isn’t confused when Boyd comes up to him one day with a face like he’s about to fall on his sword. “I need a favor.” Boyd says.

Stiles yelps, falling out of his chair in the back of the library. It’s not _his_ fault werewolves are so sneaky.

“Never mind.” Boyd says.

Stiles flails to his feet, arms windmilling as he tries to avoid knocking more papers on the floor and gaining the ire of the librarian in the process. Well, whatever. She’s hated him since Jackson/Matt destroyed the library, and apparently she doesn’t appreciate his inside voice or the fact that he keeps stealing her books on mythological creatures.

“Wait!” He says. “I want to do you a favor! Don’t ask Scott, he’s terrible at favors. And life, sort of.”

Boyd’s face twitches into a small smile. “Fine.” He says. “I kind of need your help.”

 

* * *

 

“This is awesome.” Stiles decides. Honestly, he’d be annoyed by the lack of reciprocation of the conversation on Boyd’s side if he hadn’t spent time with Derek Hale, who made Boyd seem positively enthusiastic by comparison. “It’s kind of like a fake relationship, except a fake friendship. And we’re not going to fall in love afterwards.” He narrows his eyes at Boyd. “Right?”

Boyd flashes yellow eyes at him.

“Yep, thought so.” Stiles squeaks.

 

* * *

Stiles would make fun of Boyd for getting himself into this situation, but, honestly, it’s totally something that would happen to Stiles.

Apparently, Boyd’s mother had started getting all concerned about ridiculous things -- _you’re always wearing a leather jacket now_ , _you smell like blood_ , _you have no friends, is that a dead bunny_ \-- you know, normal, teenager stuff. This culminated, according to Boyd, in a mini intervention with his mom and big sister.

During which Boyd accidentally told them that he _did,_ in fact, have friends. And the only person he could think of that knew, and wasn’t currently a bloodthirsty creature of the night or a bloodthirsty hunter that shot him with arrows, was--

“You must be Stiles!” An exceedingly cheerful woman greets him with a big hug when Boyd lets them in his front door. She looks a lot like Boyd, with tired lines etched into her forehead but laugh crinkles around her eyes, too.

Stiles squeaks in response, then, when she lets him go, coughs nervously. “Hi, yep, that’s me. This is a nice neighborhood. You have very spacious dumpsters.”  

Boyd makes a noise suspiciously like a despairing whine next to him.

“Anyway!” Stiles says brightly. “It’s nice to meet you! You must be Ms. Boyd.”

“I am.” She says. “This is Samantha, Vernon’s sister. Oh! I’ve gotta go check on the kitchen.” She gives Boyd a quick kiss on the cheek and goes into a doorway just off the front entryway.

Samantha surveys him, looking supremely unimpressed. Stiles would be insulted, except, like, he’s met himself. She looks like Boyd too, except for the long, pink hair and the tattoos. She’s probably twenty, which, honestly, is the age Stiles is currently hoping to live to.

”Nice to meet you.” Stiles says. “I am Boyd’s friend. Like totally-for-real friend. Not fake.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Samantha says, which is _finally_ when Boyd decides to step in.

“Sam, how about you go get Stiles something to drink, since he’s a guest?” He says, folding his arms.

“He’s _your_ guest.” Samantha mutters, but disappears anyway.

“I think that’s the most words I’ve ever heard you say at once.” Stiles whispers harshly to Boyd. “Also: why didn’t you warn me your family is terrifying? _Also_ also: _Vernon?”_

Boyd shrugs. “They’re family.”

Stiles scoffs. “Fine. I’ll help you hide your secret by heroically sacrificing my evening.” He knows if Boyd could take Erica home without questions about why she dresses like she’s in a gang and keeps growling at people, he would. “I better get dessert out of this.”

Boyd rolls his eyes. “You’ll get dessert.”

“That would have been the moment Derek chose to make a crack about eating _me_ for dinner instead.” Stiles says. “Just so you know. Might up your intimidation factor just a little.”

 

* * *

 

“This is delicious, Mrs. Boyd.” Stiles says, shoving another bite into his mouth gracelessly. “Really, really good.”

“Thank you, Stiles.” Boyd’s mom scoops another ladle onto his plate. In the tradition of moms everywhere, she seems determined not to rest until Stiles explodes.

“How did you two meet?” Samantha asks.

“School.” Boyd says.

“Boyd.” His mom says. “Elaborate.”

“It was regular.” Stiles says. “Very normal. Normal activities.”

“I subbed for the lacrosse team one time in an emergency.” Boyd says, pushing his fork across his plate. “We met then.”

A lie, since Stiles was drowning with, like, 800 pounds of paralyzed werewolf in a swimming pool at the time, but a convincing lie. “That sure is what happened.” Stiles agrees.

“I didn't know you played!” Boyd’s mom says. “Were you any good?”

Stiles nods enthusiastically. “Boyd’s built like a brick wall. Coach loved it. He was crying, I think.”

“Really?”

Stiles nods. “Coach is a crazy person.”

“He is.” Boyd says when Sam and his mother look to him for confirmation. Which, like, rude, except Boyd is inherently more trustworthy than Stiles.

“Well, I'm proud of you for going out there, honey.” Boyd’s mom says. “I’m proud of how well you're doing.”

Stiles clears his throat, uncomfortable with this level of motherly affection and the reminder that both of them are egregiously lying to her, even at this very moment. “This is so good, Mrs. Boyd. Does Bo- Vernon know how to cook? He’s never cooked for me before.”

“Vernon is a _great_ cook!” Samantha says; no matter how suspicious of Stiles she is, she, like all sisters, literally cannot pass up a chance to embarrass Boyd. “You’ll have to get him to make you something sometime.”

“I most definitely will have to do that, _Vernon._ ” Stiles says. “ _Vernon,_ will you make me brownies?”

“No.” Boyd says.

“He’s gonna.” Stiles assures the room. “He’s totally gonna.”

 

* * *

 

“Your mom seemed really happy that you made a friend.” Stiles says, uncoordinatedly leaning out the Jeep’s window so he can talk to Boyd. His stomach is almost uncomfortably full. He’s not 100 percent sure Boyd’s mom wasn’t trying to fatten him up like the witch in Hansel and Gretel. It would have been a great way to go.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been sitting alone for a long time.” Boyd says uncomfortably.

Stiles points at him. “You don’t sit alone now, do you? I know I saw Erica groping your leg under the lunch table while I tried to help Isaac with his math homework.”

“I guess not.” Boyd says slowly. Boyd is… solid. He’s the most secure out of the whole pack, like a big ‘ol rock in the middle of the rushing water that is the rest of the puppies. Stiles is pretty sure he could spontaneously combust in front of him right now and Boyd would just kind of sigh.

“This friendship thing? Doesn’t have to be fake.” Stiles says. “You can call me and Scott any time. Video games, or homework, or hanging out away from Derek’s testosterone. If you haven’t fallen in love with me yet.”

Boyd laughs, ducks his head, and (gently) knocks Stiles’ head into the frame of his Jeep. “Bye, Stiles.”

 

* * *

 

“Yo, Boyd.” Stiles says, catching Boyd’s arm when they’re leaving Calculus.

“Stiles.” Boyd says. “What?”

Stiles lowers his voice. “I was listening to my dad’s police scanner this morning, and I caught a report that there was an animal attack in the woods.”

“We didn’t do it.” Boyd says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I know _that._ They’re saying it’s a bear, but there’s no other major predators in the pack’s territory.”

Boyd frowns. “We’d chase them out.” He agrees. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Scott and Allison have a date tonight, which basically means he’s useless for the rest of the day. I don’t talk to Jackson unless I have to, and Erica still kind of scares me.”

Boyd sighs.

“Wanna go wandering around the woods?” Stiles asks.

Boyd sighs again.

 

* * *

 

Stiles brings a flashlight, even though it’s the middle of the day, and water bottles. Also, as he reveals when Boyd’s stomach growls, snacks.

“Why did you pack like you’re going camping, not looking for an evil creature in the woods?” Boyd asks, eating the granola bar Stiles handed him. It’s peanut butter, his favorite. At this point, Boyd’s not even surprised.

“Because,” Stiles says, “You never know when looking for an evil creature in the woods will turn into camping. Or death.”

Boyd nods. It’s true enough.

They tromp aimlessly through the woods for a while. Boyd’s tracking skills aren’t as great as Derek’s, or Scott’s, and Stiles doesn’t know that much of the territory beyond the areas the pack frequents most.

Still, though, Boyd knows it when he catches an odd scent. Stiles picks up on Boyd’s sudden tension, if not the strange, musky smell in the air.

“What is it?” Stiles whispers, half hiding behind Boyd’s back and bunching one hand in Boyd’s leather jacket and the other in the pocket of his own hoodie. Boyd smells something that makes his eyes water, and suspects Stiles has somehow acquired mountain ash or wolfsbane.

“Let go of me.” Boyd says, pushing him off gently. “I don't know what it is. It smells wrong. Not a bear.”

“Werewolf?” Stiles asks.

Boyd shakes his head. “Don't think so.”

“Well, then, what is it?”

“Don't know.”

“Wow, _you're_ helpful.” Stiles huffs. “Where's it coming from?”

Boyd jerks his head. “There.” Stiles tries to go ahead of him, but Boyd rolls his eyes and flashes his fangs. “Let me.”

“No argument from me.” Stiles says, tripping over his own feet to try and avoid his teeth. “Go ahead.”

The smell was coming from a small cluster of bushes. It was faint enough that Boyd wasn't particularly worried about whatever it was still being there, but Scott would kill him if Stiles got eaten.

The clearing is empty, but the smell is much stronger. He turns to tell Stiles it’s safe, but Stiles is already ahead of him, examining an imprint in the ground.

“ _Dude.”_ Stiles says. “ _Please_ tell me you see this.”

Boyd sighs, but goes to look. “Oh.” He says.

“ _Oh?!?”_ Stiles repeats. “That’s all you have to say? _Oh?_ That’s a freakin’ Bigfoot print!”

Boyd shrugs. “Werewolves are real, why can’t Bigfoot be?” The print is deeply imprinted on the ground, and it’s already gathered a small puddle of moisture from the condensation in the air, like the dinosaur footprint in _Jurassic Park._ It’s big, too. It’s definitely too big to be human, and it looks like it was bare, no shoe or anything.

“I forgot you’re the most chill guy ever.” Stiles says, taking out his phone and snapping a photo. “I’m sending this to the pack.” He says. “Derek and Scott should know, and maybe Lydia can help me with research.”

Boyd nods.

“Is it close? Does it _smell_ like a Bigfoot?” Stiles asks, crouching down to look closer at the footprint. He gets the front of his shirt splattered in mud and grime, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He pokes the footprint like it might move, and smells it.

“It hasn’t been here for at least eight hours.” Boyd says.

“Oh.” Stiles says, sounding disappointed. “I kinda wanted to see it.”

“You’ll probably see it if it tries to rip its claws through your stomach.” Boyd says. “I have to get to work. Can you drop me off?”

 

* * *

 

Stiles shoves a handful of curly fries into his mouth with one hand and texts Scott with the other. He is a very skilled multitasker.

He yelps when something large and solid slams into him, and fumbles the phone. A dark hand darts out to catch it.

“Boyd.” Stiles says, clutching at his heart with his now free hand. “I see you’re taking lessons from everyone I know. Glad to know you’re also committed to giving me heart palpitations.”

Boyd’s eyes dart around, lingering suspiciously on the old lady waiting for the bus and the kid licking a lollipop. Stiles feels his heart, which had calmed when he realized it was only a werewolf, pick up again. “What’s wrong? Is there somethi-”

“I can smell my mom and sister.” Boyd says. “They’re around the corner.”

Stiles frowns at him, shoving the last fry into his mouth before Boyd can get the idea into his head that he’s sharing. “What does that have to do with me?”

Boyd still looks, for a degree of Boyd-ness, panicked. “I told them I was out with you, but I was training with the pack.”

“This is getting dangerously close to rom-com territory here, Boyd.” Stiles says. “Next thing you know, we’re having an easily-avoided misunderstanding and you’re apologizing to me in the rain, maybe with a boombox-”

“Stiles.” Boyd says. “They can’t know I was with the pack. They’re going to find out what I am, and what we’ve been dealing with, and-”

“Whoa, whoa, dude, calm down.” Stiles puts up his hands. “Come on. It’s a bro date. You can buy me ice cream or something.”

“Ice cream?” Boyd seems to calm. “Okay, I can do that.”

When Boyd’s family “happen” on them outside the ice cream shop, playing video games against each other on their phones, Stiles grins brightly up at them. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Boyd. And Samantha! You two look lovely as always.” Samantha gives him a look with her lips pursed, but Boyd’s mom looks absolutely delighted. It reminds Stiles that before this whole bite thing, Boyd sat alone at lunch every day and always worked alone on group projects.

“Vernon, Stiles!” Mrs. Boyd says. “Vernon said that the two of you were hanging out today.”

“Well, we are.” Stiles says. “This is a thing we’ve been doing. All day.”

Boyd bangs his leg, hard, against his under the table. “Actually, Stiles has to get going now.”

“I do?” Stiles says, and gets kicked again. “Oh, yeah, I do. Want a ride home?”

“Sure.” Boyd says. “Bye, guys.”

Stiles waits until they’re around the corner to talk. “So? What’s the prognosis? They believe you?”

Boyd tilts his head, listening. “Mom does. Sam thinks you’re crazy.”

“They’ll give into my charms eventually.” Stiles says, shoving the last bite of his ice cream cone into his mouth.

“Sure.” Boyd says doubtfully.

 

* * *

 

Stiles has spent three days straight, in between homework and pretending to be Boyd’s friend (little does Boyd know that it’s too late, he’s given in to Stiles’ charms already), researching Bigfoot. There’s a _lot_ of stuff out there, but almost none of it is actually useful. He has to sort through the crackpot accounts and the real ones.

There’s no mention of Bigfoot in the parts of Gerard’s bestiary that Lydia and Stiles have managed to translate yet, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing there. He’s been teaching himself Latin, lately, which has gotten him a lot of weird looks, but so far no dice.

Stiles clicks through another untranslated page, searching for the words he recognizes that might have to do with Bigfoot or a Bigfoot-like monster. There’s a lot. He needs to narrow this down.

He texts Boyd. _Did Mr. Bigfoot smell like dead things?_

_No._

Stiles makes a note and clicks through to the next page of the bestiary.

_Did Mr. Bigfoot seem like he might have eaten any babies recently?_

_No._

Oh. Comforting, at least, even if his dad had gotten another call about an animal attack in the woods. Also, that got rid of at least three possibilities.

_What about magic? Did u smell magic?_

_Does magic even have a smell?_

_Also did it smell like ozone at all?_

_Do u think Mr. Bigfoot is a person that transforms into Mr. Bigfoot or hes Mr. Bigfoot all the time?_

_Do u think you could smell him on a dead body?_

_…._

_Boyd?_

Stiles screams and falls out of his computer chair when Boyd comes in through his window. Well, leaps in from the ground and does a showy flip, landing like an Olympic gymnast, because werewolves have to be extra about everything, at all times.

“Dude! Stop doing that!”

Boyd holds out his phone, which is lit up entirely with texts from Stiles.

“Oh, right.” Stiles says. “So?”

Boyd sighs and sits in Stiles’ vacated chair. “No, I don’t know, no, I don’t know, and yes.”

“Oh.” Stiles says. “Awesome.” He grabs his laptop and starts typing frantically, sitting on his bed, which crinkles.

“Your room looks like a serial killer’s.” Boyd says.

“What?” Stiles says, looking up distractedly. His Bigfoot research has basically invaded the entire room. There’s printouts scattered on basically every surface, as well as taped to the wall. There’s also a large picture of Bigfoot, the classic blurry one with his arms swinging at his sides, against a wall. “Oh, yeah. Sorry, my research gets kinda…”

“Obsessive?”

“Thorough, Boyd, thorough! Geez, rude.”

Boyd smirks. “Anything I can do to help?”

Stiles looks up in surprise, tucking what appears to be the third pen behind his ear. “Yeah, actually. I need you to look through these-” He shoves a pile of papers into Boyd’s hands. “They’re animal attacks. I need you to see which ones look like they might have been Mr. Bigfoot.”

“We’re not calling him Mr. Bigfoot.” Boyd says.

 

* * *

 

“It looks like Mr. Bigfoot has been in four other towns before Beacon Hills.” Boyd says. “They would get about a dozen killings, then they would stop and start in another town.”

Stiles taps his lips with a highlighter. “About a dozen or _exactly_ a dozen?”

Boyd flips through his notes. “11, 12, 11, 13.”

Stiles frowns, putting the highlighter in his hair and reaching for another one. “Maybe-”

The Sheriff steps into the room, looking bewildered but not entirely surprised.

“Stiles?” He asks, surveying the poster of Mr. Bigfoot with a sort of familiar resignation. “Who’s this?”

“This is Boyd.” Stiles says, pointing to the werewolf, who’s migrated to the bed so Stiles can continue doing whatever he’s doing on the computer. “He’s a friend from school.”

“I’m not your friend.” Boyd says.

“Vernon Moses Boyd!” Stiles says. “Stop lying. We’re friends.” He reassures his dad.

The Sheriff sighs. “I’m sorry to hear that, Boyd.”

“Hey!” Stiles says.

Boyd smiles.

“Is this in Latin?” The Sheriff asks, peeking over Stiles’ shoulder at the computer screen.

“Yeah.” Stiles says. “Hobby.”

“Again, Boyd, I am _so sorry.”_ The Sheriff says.

 

* * *

 

Boyd yawns, muting the tv so he can answer the doorbell. Who would ring someone’s doorbell at 9 on a Saturday morning? The door swings open, and, really, he should have expected it.

“Stiles.”

“Boyd!” Stiles tries ineffectively to push past Boyd in the doorframe. He pouts. “Boyd, let me in. I have cookies.”

Boyd raises an eyebrow, but takes a step back. “I thought we were already friends, Stiles. You don’t have to woo me with cookies.”

“I know.” Stiles says. “I’m here to charm your family. Soon, they will succumb to my friendship charms, as you did.”

“With a sales pitch like that, how can anyone resist your friendship?” Boyd asks, but takes him into the kitchen and lets him peel off the saran wrap and meticulously arrange the cookies.

“They can’t.” Stiles says. “How do you think I became friends with Scott? He had literally no choice in the matter.”

“Great.” Boyd mutters as his mom comes in and starts cooing over the not one but _five_ varieties of cookies Stiles has brought.

 

* * *

 

Stiles, with all the ease of long practice, fends off Scott’s attempt to get a sip of his milkshake. Scott pouts, but retreats and goes back to trying to convince Isaac to give him his shake. Boyd and Erica roll their eyes, sedately passing their own milkshake back and forth between the two of them. Stiles is carrying on an argument with Lydia about some obscure type of wolfsbane, but he’s still the first one to spot the figure who’s lurking, looking confused, around the fringe of their booth.

“Sam!” He says, waving an enthusiastic hand. “Sammy!”

Samantha glares at him. “Stiles. Vernon, who are these people?”

Everyone simultaneously mouths the word _Vernon,_ except for Erica and Stiles.

“These are some of our friends!” Stiles answers for Boyd, who looks kind of panicked. “They’re very normal.”

He elbows Scott, who dutifully nods. “We’re normal teenagers.”

They do introductions kind of awkwardly, and make small talk for a while. Thankfully, Scott and Allison are as disgustingly sweet as usual, which drives Samantha away after not too long.

“How come _you_ met Boyd’s family before me?” Scott asks sadly, sliding a hand up Allison’s thigh and giving her heart eyes.

“And _me_?” Erica asks.

“Dude, Boyd’s family loves me-”

“They do not.” Boyd says.

“-are _on their way_ to loving me!” Stiles continues, undeterred. “They have no chance.”

“Poor people.” Scott says into Stiles’ milkshake.

Stiles punches him in the arm as hard as he can, then whines to Boyd to take his pain away.

 

* * *

 

“Boyd!” Stiles’ voice shouts over Boyd’s phone.

“Stiles.” Boyd says, ignoring his sister’s surprised look. “You realize it’s one in the morning?”

Stiles is silent a moment. “I did not, but I now realize why Scott was so grumpy when I came in his window.”

Boyd sighs, setting aside his plans of showering and then crashing in bed. “Why are you calling me?”

“We’re hunting for Mr. Bigfoot!”

“Stiles, no.” Boyd says.

There’s a knock on the door.

“That better not be you.” Boyd says as Sam goes to answer it.

“Hi, Boyd!” Stiles waves from the other side, half-supporting a sleepy-looking Scott on his shoulder. “Hi, Samantha.”

“Stiles.” Samantha gives him a disapproving once-over. “It's late.”

“Trust me, that won't stop him.” Scott says miserably. He’s wearing sweatpants and his hair is so rumpled Boyd can't help but wonder if Stiles literally dragged the poor guy out of bed. “Nothing will.”

Stiles beams at him like it's a compliment. Boyd sighs. “Let me get my jacket.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sam asks.

“We’re hunting for Bigfoot!” Stiles says. Sam raises an eyebrow. “I’m kidding. We’re going to a midnight movie thing.”

“It’s 1AM.” Sam says as Boyd reaches the door.

“Yep, we’re running late.” Stiles says. “So we should probably get going. Come on, Scott, wake up.”

Scott yawns, taking his head off Stiles’ shoulder and waving goodbye to Samantha.

“I really regret ever becoming friends with you.” Boyd tells Stiles as they get in the Jeep.

“So you _do_ admit that we’re friends!” Stiles says victoriously.

 

* * *

 

“So, like, why so early? Can’t we hunt for Mr. Bigfoot _after_ we sleep?” Erica asks, using the rearview mirror to finish her eyeliner. She, Boyd, Stiles, Lydia, and Isaac are squashed in the Jeep. Following behind are Derek, Scott, Jackson, and Allison in the Camaro.

“I realized the reason we couldn’t find Mr. Bigfoot in the patrols was because we weren’t looking at the right time. When me and Boyd found his track in the woods, it was already old. He probably sleeps during the day, or something.”

“Nocturnal.” Lydia says, without looking up from her phone. “Or, as I suspect, crepuscular.”

“What?” Isaac asks.

“Active during twilight.” Lydia says. “That’s when most of the attacks happened.”

“Twighlight isn't for a few hours.” Boyd points out. “We’re not going to be able to find him now, either.”

“Hopefully Mr. Bigfoot will be asleep, so as we don’t all get horribly mauled.” Stiles says.

“How do we know Mr. Bigfoot is Mr. Bigfoot?” Erica asks, putting her high-heeled boot on Boyd’s lap while she laces it up. The shoes are completely impractical for the woods, but Boyd’s pretty sure she’d be able to outrun him, if it came to it. “What if he’s Mr. Something Else?”

“He could be.” Stiles says, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as they turn into the preserve. “But Bigfoot sightings have to originate from one creature, right? So we just have to figure out what that creature is and kill it. Or stop it.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Erica says, unsheathing her claws casually. “I’ve never killed a Bigfoot before.”

 

* * *

 

Derek and Scott split them into groups of two, sending them off in a grid pattern through the woods.

“Hang on.” Stiles says, digging something in a plastic bag out of the back of his Jeep. He pulls out what looks like a muddy shirt. Boyd realizes it’s the one he’d been wearing when they were looking for Mr. Bigfoot the first time. “Here. Smell this. Except Boyd. He doesn’t have to, because he was the only one cool enough to be there with me when we first picked up the scent.”

“This smells like _you_ , dude.” Scott says, holding it between two fingers.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Smell harder, bro.”

Scott sighs, but presses the fabric onto his nose, and sneezes. “Oh, gross. I smell it now.” He practically throws it at Erica, who buries her face in the shirt. Derek, Isaac and Jackson all follow suit reluctantly, and Isaac sneezes into his sleeve no less than three times.

“Okay, now that you have the scent, we can go.” Stiles says, looking pleased as he stuffs his shirt back in the bag and tosses it into the Jeep.

Stiles and Boyd end up together, mostly because when Scott claims Allison as his partner Stiles clamps onto Boyd’s arm and calls dibs.

“Why.” Boyd says as Stiles half drags him into the brush, both searching the ground carefully for more footprints.

“Boyd, we’re bros.” Stiles says. “We started this whole Bigfoot hunt together, don’t you want to finish it together?”

“I don’t care.” Boyd says.

“You know, that hurts. Deep down in my soul.”

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe we haven’t found Mr. Bigfoot yet.” Stiles says dejectedly. “You know, for hunting a mythological creature, this is surprisingly boring.”

“Boring is better than being attacked.” Boyd says.

Stiles squints at him. “You can’t even complain like a normal person?”

“Yes, this is boring.” Boyd says dryly.

Stiles turns to him, delighted. “Boyd!”

Boyd rolls his eyes. “Get moving, Stiles. My sister may not call the cops if we’re out all night, but your dad is the _Sheriff._ ”

“You think I’m not aware of that, Boyd?” Stiles asks. “I’m pretty-”

They both jump when a loud howl echoes through the forest. They look each other in the eye a moment, then sprint towards the sound.

Boyd gets there almost a full minute before Stiles; werewolf speed. He finds Scott tussling with Mr. Bigfoot while Allison keeps her drawn bow on it, waiting for an opening. The others arrive with Stiles, who’s panting slightly and looking winded. He’s pulled a baseball bat out of his backpack, though, and holds it like he’s more than willing to use it.

“It’s _actually_ Bigfoot.” Lydia says, a little breathless, as the wolves jump into the fray.

Mr. Bigfoot is, Boyd muses as he goes for his throat with fangs and claws, _enormous._ He’s at least a couple inches taller than Boyd and twice as wide, covered in thick fur and strong-smelling.

“Let’s stay back here.” He hears Stiles say when Derek gets tossed into a tree. “ _Way_ back here.”

Boyd snarls, following Scott’s lead and backing off a little, circling Mr. Bigfoot rather than keep attacking. The rest of the wolves follow suit, slowly circling the creature. It smells like the footprint Boyd had found in the woods, strong and like killing.

“We’re not even hurting it.” Scott says, spitting blood.

“Go for the eyes!” Stiles suggests from the sidelines, but ducks when Mr. Bigfoot’s gaze turns to him. “Or just, you know, you be you.”

“Seriously, go for the eyes!” Lydia calls. “The smallest target is usually the most vulnerable.”

“Isaac, Erica, and I will distract it.” Derek says in a whisper. “The rest of you, go for its eyes.”

Boyd nods, swiping his claws against each other in anticipation. They move all at once, leaping to do their parts. Isaac and Erica are almost immediately tossed away, landing with painful-sounding thumps on the sideline.

Lydia and Stiles go to check on them, while Allison covers them with her bow and a steely look.

Boyd manages to get a swipe at Mr. Bigfoot’s right eye, before he’s thrown into a heap with Jackson and Scott. Derek lands next to him, on his feet, a moment later.

“Great job.” Stiles says, using his flannel to try and stem the bleeding on Erica’s arm, which isn’t healing as quickly as it should. “You let Mr. Bigfoot get away.”

Boyd looks at his bloodied claws. “Not quite.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m not sure why you’re not healing as fast.” Deaton says, prodding a wound on Isaac’s arm curiously. “But you _are_ healing.”

“Good to know.” Erica says, wincing and holding an ice pack over her eye. “Makes me feel better about getting our butts totally kicked.”

“I got it.” Boyd says. “Just one eye, but it will be weakened now.”

It’s approaching on dawn, now, and the cats and dogs in their cages are starting to stir with the light, instinctively awakening. Boyd _wishes_ he was still asleep.

“Good job!” Scott praises, the only one to do so.

“Why couldn’t our claws penetrate its skin?” Derek asks. He’s standing in the corner with his arms crossed, apparently too cool for medical attention.

“Call him Mr. Bigfoot.” Stiles complains.

“No.” Derek says.

Deaton doesn’t visibly react. “I’m not sure what kind of creature you’re looking at.”

“It’s a Bigfoot.” The teenagers say at the same time.

“I’m not sure what kind of creature you’re looking at.” Deaton repeats. “But I suspect it has some sort of enchantment or ability that particularly guards it against werewolves.”

“If you haven’t noticed, most of the people fighting it _are werewolves._ ” Stiles says, gesturing wildly at the room. “Kinda gonna need a better answer than _werewolves can’t kill it. ”_

Deaton shrugs. “I suppose most supernatural creatures have the same weaknesses. I would suggest mountain ash.”

“That,” Stiles says, looking surprised at a straightforward answer for once, “We can do.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles drops Boyd off at home at about 6 AM, yawning into his sleeve. “Thanks for the help, Boyd.” He says, trying to get Scott off his shoulder, where he’s sleeping. “Scott, wake up.” Scott snores almost pointedly.

Boyd nods, looking at Erica, who’s still asleep in the backseat. Jackson had taken Lydia and Allison home, and Isaac and Derek had disappeared together. He sighs, quite aware he’s going to regret this. “Want to spend the rest of the night here? I don’t think you should be driving right now.”

Scott snorts awake at _that,_ of course. “Dude, really? I was _not_ looking forward to telling my mom where I’d been all night when I snuck in.”

Boyd sighs. “Yeah, come on in.” He leans in the open back window to shake Erica. “Wake up.”

She opens her eyes with a gold glow and a flash of fangs. Boyd doesn’t flinch. “You’re staying the night at mine, if you want.”

She sits up, werewolf features receding. “Are you kidding? Of course. I’m not sleeping in Stiles’ crappy Jeep for any longer than I have to.”

“Hey!” Stiles protests as the four of them get onto the stoop and Boyd opens the door. “I’ll have you know my crappy Jeep is very comfortable to sleep in.”

Boyd flicks on the light, wincing. His mom is working the night shift at the docks -- she’s a security guard for one of the warehouses there -- but his sister-

“Little late, isn’t it?” Sam asks, looking up from her phone to raise an eyebrow at Boyd. Everyone jumps and swears, and Stiles actually manages to trip over his own feet. Erica catches him with one hand and hauls him back upright.

“Did you stay up all night just to catch me sneaking in?” Boyd asks.

“Yep.” Sam says. “I didn’t think you’d bring _friends,_ though.”

“Hi, Sam!” Stiles says. “I have gotten a total of three hours of sleep, so I’m going to go crash in Boyd’s bed now.”

“You’re sleeping on the floor.” Boyd tells him, which he seems to ignore.

“Race you.” Erica says.

“That’s not a fair fight!” Stiles yelps, but pushes past her, jostling elbows.

Scott and Boyd are the only two left, and Boyd’s only half sure Scott isn’t asleep as he’s standing up.

“How was your movie?” Sam asks.

“Uh.” Boyd says. He’s not quick on his feet, not unless he’s talking literally, which has saved his life more than a few times.

“Good.” Scott yawns. “We watched _Teen Wolf._ ”

Boyd chokes on unexpected laughter, stifling it and nodding.

Sam gives Boyd a disbelieving look, but he steers Scott towards his bedroom and avoids her judgemental gaze. When he pushes the door open, Stiles and Erica are already snoring on top of each other, Erica’s hair in Stiles’ mouth and Stiles’ legs everywhere. Scott yawns and plops face-first on top of Stiles, immediately asleep.

“I told you to sleep on the floor.” Boyd grumbles, pulling off his boots and leather jacket and letting them drop on the carpet, which needs vacuuming.

“Ha, you wish.” Stiles mutters into Boyd’s pillow. Boyd drops on top of the three of them unceremoniously.

“Ow.” Stiles complains, but shifts so that Boyd can have some of the pillow.

“Goodnight, Stiles.” Boyd says.

 

* * *

 

Boyd is woken up by the smell of pancakes. He hasn’t gone grocery shopping in a week, and he doesn’t think they have pancake batter. And their stove is broken.

Erica shifts, wrinkling her nose. “Do I smell pancakes?”

Scott wakes up at the promise of food, sitting straight up. “Pancakes!”

Stiles is gone, and Boyd suspects he knows where he is. His suspicions are confirmed when the werewolves follow their noses out into the kitchen, where Stiles appears to be having a very serious conversation with the stove.

“You are going to work for me.” Stiles tells it, waving a spatula. “I’ve already accidentally sacrificed a pancake to the fire gods-” That must be where the burned smell came from- “So you’re going to work now, okay?” The burner lights with a _whoosh._

Stiles makes a triumphant sound.

“Where did you get pancake mix?” Boyd asks, and Stiles yelps, flinging pancake batter that splatters onto his face and Boyd’s nose.

“You gotta stop doing that!” Stiles says, turning back to flip a pancake. “I had to make my dad bring it to me on his way to work, which he was very confused about, by the way. What kind of heathens don’t have pancake batter?”

“He brought chocolate chips too?” Scott asks hopefully, sniffing the air.

“Yes, you loser. I know you won’t eat them without chocolate chips. What kind of best friend do you take me for?”

“The best one.” Scott says, sidling up to his side and reaching out to grab a pancake straight off the griddle.

Stiles smacks him. “Just for that, Erica gets the first one.”

Erica makes a noise of triumph that's entirely too excited for the situation. “I want chocolate chips in mine.”

“None for me.” Boyd says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I know, you like _blueberries._ Yuck. Yours will be last so as not to taint all the rest of the poor innocent pancakes."

Boyd can't find it in himself to be surprised that Stiles knows that.

When Boyd’s mom gets home, Stiles proudly presents her with a plate of pancakes. His plan to make her like him is definitely working, because she looks utterly charmed. Or that could just be confusion since Boyd suddenly seems to have friends. Sam is reluctantly eating her own in the corner, while the werewolves eat like, well, werewolves.

Boyd’s mother, bemused, accepts them, apparently deciding not to ask about the teenagers in her kitchen. Maybe she’s afraid of what the answer would be. It’s probably a good thing she doesn’t ask, because Boyd isn’t actually sure how his life ended up like this.

Sam takes her leave soon after. All three of them work to pay the bills; she works at a crappy waitressing job when Boyd’s not working at the crappy ice rink.

“Aww, man, Mr. Bigfoot ripped my jacket!” Erica complains, sticking a hand through a large tear in the back of her leather jacket.

“He ripped Scott’s internal organs.” Stiles says cheerfully.

“He did.” Scott says sadly. “Deaton says they should have knit themselves back together by now, though.”

“You guys are gross.” Boyd says. Stiles’ blueberry pancakes are decent.

“Says the dude who purposefully let a 20-something dude bite him.” Stiles mutters, and yelps when Erica pushes him off his chair.

Boyd’s friends are so weird.

He wouldn't trade them.

Probably.

Maybe Stiles.

 

* * *

 

“Remember how I did a fake friendship for you with your family and I didn’t even complain, like, at all?” Stiles says when Boyd picks up the phone.

“Yes you did.” Boyd says.

“Damn it, Boyd, can you just work with me for a second?!?”

Boyd smirks at his phone. “What do you need, Stiles?”

He can hear Stiles fidgeting on the other end, typing some kind of research into his laptop. “So, my dad kinda asked why you were over the other day, and I told him we were doing a school project, and he said, _poor kid,_ and I said, _dude, that’s not cool,_ and he said-”

“Stiles.”

“Anyway, he didn’t believe me that I could trick a cool kid like you into working on one of my projects. And now you have to come over for dinner.”

“Fine.” Boyd says. “I’m allergic to tomatoes and rom-com jokes.”

“At least one of those isn’t a real allergy!” Stiles says. “Oh, wait.”

“I have a shift at the ice rink at 9, and I don’t want to take the bus, so you’re driving me home after.”

“You only love me for my Jeep.” Stiles complains. “I’ll pick you up. I’m bringing flowers for your mom while I’m there.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What? Can’t hear you. See you for dinner!”

 

* * *

 

Stiles’ father is only a little bit better of an interrogator than Boyd’s mother was.

They make small talk for a while -- What college is Boyd thinking about? How is he doing in his classes? How is _Stiles_ doing in his classes? -- and then the Sheriff pulls out the Big Guns.

“So, Boyd,” The Sheriff asks, taking a bite of the low-fat salad that Stiles had prepared for him, “How did you two become friends?”

Stiles chokes on his own low-fat salad (it's disgusting, truthfully, but this is the hill Stiles will die on) but is literally saved by the bell as second later when the timer on the oven goes off.

“Oh, the pie is finished heating up.” The Sheriff says, pushing away from his chair to head for the kitchen. “Hold that thought.”

Stiles scooches his chair next to Boyd’s the second his dad is out of sight.

“Boyd! We fell for the oldest trick in the rom-com book!” Stiles hisses. “Why didn’t we rehearse this?!?”

“Calm down, Stiles, just tell him we met at school like we did with my family.”

“We can't tell him the lacrosse story, because he was totally at that game. Oh, should I tell him about the time you guys sieged Scott’s house and tried to kill Lydia? Or when I bribed you to give me illegal access to the ice rink? Or the time we were tied up in a basement together? Or when you rom-com status literally hired me out to be your fake friend? Literally no version of this is a good one!”

Boyd even starts to look a little alarmed when Stiles’ dad returns. Not good. Mayday. Boyd panics when there’s a thousand volts of hunter electricity running through his veins. When someone’s entrails get ripped out with a butter knife or a faerie's claws (both of which have happened before). Not when Stiles’ dad returns bearing an Albertson’s apple pie. Mayday.

“Looks good, dad.” Stiles says. “Delicious. Anyone want to talk about the history of pie? I don't know it but I'm sure we can do the research.”

“Please don't.” The Sheriff says. “Anyway, Boyd was about to tell me how you two met.”

“Oh.” Boyd says. Don't panic, Boyd. “Stiles decided we were friends one day, and I didn't actually have a choice.”

“We met through mutual friends, and this friendship was _entirely consensual, Boyd.”_ Stiles says.

“By mutual friends you mean Scott.” The Sheriff takes a bite of his salad and winces at the taste.

“I have friends other than Scott, Dad.” The Sheriff raises an eyebrow. “Although, yes, it was Scott.”

Stiles’ dad seems satisfied with that answer, thankfully, although he eyes Stiles with the judgy eyes that mean he’s not a hundred percent convinced he’s telling the truth. Boyd apparently escapes this suspicion, maybe because everybody instinctually likes Boyd, deep down.

Boyd eats like a hungry werewolf, and Stiles like a hungry teenager, which means they both eat almost the same grossly large amount. Stiles’ dad looks grudgingly impressed at the food they pack away.

“How can you eat so much?” He grumbles as they start taking plates to the kitchen.

“Boyd’s a werewolf.” Stiles says.

Boyd almost fumbles a plate and is saved only by advanced werewolf reflexes, glaring at Stiles.

“Funny, Stiles.” The Sheriff says, ruffling the stubble of Stiles’ hair as he passes by holding the empty salad bowl.

“Not funny, Stiles.” Boyd glowers and hisses under his breath. Stiles shoots him a grin and darts out of reach.

“Don’t be grumpy, teen wolf.” Stiles says. “You got fed for free and everything! And there were no injuries.”

“Yet.” Boyd says under his breath.

“Hey dad, want some help?” Stiles yelps, rocketing towards the kitchen as Boyd chuckles.

 

* * *

 

“You were right!” Stiles practically throws himself into the seat next to Boyd in the library where he's working on a report with Danny Mahealani.

“Hi, Stiles.” Danny says.

“Oh, hi, Danny.” Stiles says. He’s got a one-track mind as always. “Anyway, Boyd, you were right, or, well, technically, _I_ was right, but you definitely helped.”

“Maybe we should finish this later.” Danny says, sounding amused. Boyd is 99.9 percent sure Mahealani knows about werewolves, but Boyd can understand why he’s keeping quiet, if he really does know.

Boyd sighs. “Sure.”

Stiles doesn’t even wait until Danny’s out of earshot before he plops what looks kind of like a graduate-level thesis on Bigfoot in front of Boyd’s face. “We were right! Mr. Bigfoot _does_ kill in dozens.”

Boyd raises an eyebrow. “But it was sometimes less or more victims.”

“Nope.” Stiles says, all too cheerfully for someone talking about Bigfoot murdering people. Of course, that might be because Boyd can smell more Adderall and Redbull than human on him. “The cops misclassified.” He pulls out a stack of case files that Boyd’s positive he’s not supposed to have. One of them has an FBI logo on it.

“How?”

“Different ways.” Stiles flips open the first file, sliding it around so Boyd can see. “In _this_ town, they didn’t classify one of them as an animal attack. They thought she died of hypothermia, and animals got at it after the fact. But it was the other way around.” Stiles winces. “Here, this one _was_ an animal attack, but it was actually a dog, not what we’re looking for.”

Boyd hums thoughtfully. “I’m guessing it’s similar with all the animal attack cases.”

“Yep.” Stiles says. “All across the country.”

“Okay, so what does twelve mean?”

Stiles shrugs. “Got me. According to Wikipedia, a hell of a lot of magical stuff was based around the number twelve. Jesus had the twelve apostles, there was some Hindu dude who had twelve names, there was 12 Greek gods in the Pantheon. Also twelve months in a year, and-”

“Got it.” Boyd says. “A lot.”

“A lot.” Stiles confirms, huffing out a breath of frustrated air. “There’s been three deaths already. We can’t wait for nine more.”

“We found Mr. Bigfoot’s den once.” Boyd says. “But he’s moved since then, and none of us have been able to track him.”

Stiles sighs. “I’ve been carrying mountain ash around in my backpack for a week. I’m pretty sure Greenberg thinks I have some kind of weird drug in there. But I can’t use it if we can’t find it.”

Boyd nods. “We’re going to have to find out more information before we can catch him. Does Mr. Argent know anything?”

“No.” Stiles says, face scrunched. “He says it might be in the bestiary, though. Thankfully there's only a million pages of that to get through.”

“We haven’t asked Peter, yet.” Boyd points out.

Stiles makes an egregiously disgusted face. “I’m aware of that, Boyd.”

“So we should probably ask him.”

“I’m aware of that, Boyd.” Stiles says.

“You don’t want to talk to him because you hate him.”

“I hate him so much!”

Boyd squeezes Stiles’ shoulder just this side of a little too tight, and grins. “I’ll have Derek set up the meeting.”

Stiles lets his head thunk onto the table.

 

* * *

 

Peter greets Lydia first when they all enter into Derek’s loft. Lydia stares at him, and wordlessly holds out a taser. Peter backs away.

“I can’t believe you didn’t call me first, Stiles.” Peter says, backing into safer territory and getting into Stiles’ personal space.

“I would have, except, I hate you.” Stiles says, taking a large step back. Boyd notices he’s holding his bat. He also notices Derek hasn’t told him to _stop_ holding the bat.

“I hate him too.” Isaac chimes in.

“Same.” Allison says.

“Me too.” Lydia adds.

“Harsh.” Peter says. “You kids really don’t know how to ask for a favor, do you?”

Derek bares his fangs and his eyes shine an authoritative red. “This isn’t a favor. Tell us what we need to know.”

“Touchy.” Peter sulks. “Tell me what you’ve managed to stumble into so far.”

Stiles tells most of the story, mostly because he’s the one who’s been doing most of the research, Boyd doesn't talk unless he has to, and Scott seems to be too busy staring lovingly into Allison's eyes to contribute to the conversation.

“Hmm.” Peter says, buffing his already-too clean nails on his deep V. Stiles really wasn’t kidding about that, apparently. “Sounds like a _stiyaha_ to me.”

“A what?” Scott asks, tearing himself from Allison’s gaze.

“Bigfoot, genius.” Peter says. “A stiyaha is a kind of Bigfoot. With some… added features.”

“What kind of added features?” Lydia says. “That was a very pregnant pause.”

“ _Well,_ Lydia,” Peter looks expectantly at her. She crackles the taser, and he quickly looks back at Derek. “The stiyaha is a nasty creature. Shape-shifter. Skin that’s damn near invulnerable. They say if you speak it’s name after dark, it will find you.”

“Creepy.” Stiles says. “Anything else? How do we kill it?”

“Now, Stiles,” Peter says, “Do you expect me to do _everything_ for you?”

Boyd is beginning to understand why Stiles hates Derek’s uncle so much.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s information is circumspect at the best of times, but at the very least, he’s usually right. Not that Stiles trusts a word out of his mouth, but at least now he has a place to search. The internet is surprisingly sparse on the topic of the stiyaha, and he mostly finds shady conspiracy websites and one or two lines on Wikipedia.

He’d be worried about his strange search history, if he hadn’t done research on much weirder topics in the past, even before the whole werewolf thing. On a related note, Stiles is 99 percent sure that the chupacabra is actually just a kanima without a master. He wonders how many other legends are based on truth too and has to calm himself down from going on yet another research spree.

He switches over to the bestiary and visually searches the pages and pages of Latin (they haven’t gotten around to transcribing them yet, so Control+F is out, sadly) until he finds the page on stiyaha.

He makes a little whoop of success, and when his dad looks in the door, Stiles gestures at his computer screen. “I found Bigfoot!”

His dad pinches his nose. “Stiles. Please go to bed.”

“I’m going to be famous when this gets out, dad. Famous. Then you’ll be sorry.”

“Goodnight, Stiles.” The sheriff says, entering the rest of the way into Stiles’ room and shutting his laptop. He sees the picture of Bigfoot, which Erica had defaced with a sharpie mustache days ago, and sighs.

“Goodnight, dad.” Stiles says, and leans back in his computer chair until he sees his dad is gone. He rolls over and shuts the door with a foot and rolls back to his desk, opening his laptop back up.

He cracks his knuckles. ‘Come to papa, archaic Latin.”

He wakes up when it’s light outside, with his laptop keys stuck to his face and a distinct and terrible crick in his neck.

“Stiles.”

Stiles jumps, painfully peeling his face off his laptop. He’s pretty sure there’s a keyboard imprinted on his cheek. “Boyd, really, dude. You’ve gotta stop with this. I'm gonna have to start whacking your guys’ noses with newspapers, or something.”

“You didn’t show up to first period.” Boyd says, with a little smile. “We thought Bigfoot had eaten you.”

“And they only sent _you?_ I'm definitely offended.” Stiles says, stretching his stiff back and feeling it pop in several different places. “Oh, wait-" He registers what Boyd had said and looks at the clock on his phone. “I'm so late.”

“Yep.” Boyd says. “And I ran here, so you have to drive me back to school.”

Stiles grabs his backpack and keys, his mind moving faster than his body, and runs for the front door while slightly tripping on his own feet.  “Well, hurry up, Boyd, we’re _late.”_

 

* * *

 

“How long did it take you to notice I was gone?” Stiles says accusingly, pointing his fork at Scott. The mystery meat on his plate is as of yet untouched, but the werewolves are eyeing it hungrily. Too bad. They don’t deserve mystery meat.

Scott smiles sheepishly. “I turned to talk to you and you weren’t there. It was, like, ten minutes into first period, tops.”

“Bro.” Stiles says. “You would all be dead without me.”

“Speaking of which.” Erica says, dropping her chin on his shoulder in a way that suggests Stiles is absolutely going to hate what she has to say next. “We have a plan to catch Mr. Bigfoot.”

“What is it?” Stiles asks warily, finally giving in and ceding the mystery meat to Isaac, whose puppy eyes have reached epic strength. “‘Cause all Peter said was that he could find you if you say his name after da- _hey!_ No!”

 _“ We_ can’t do it.” Scott says, innocently. “We can’t handle the mountain ash.”

“Allison-”

“Is providing backup in the trees. Unless you can handle a crossbow.” Allison says.

“I might.” Stiles says. “Fine. I hate all of you.”

“No you don’t.” Scott says.

“I really do.” Stiles says. “Isaac, if you don’t stop eyeing my pudding I’m going to stab you.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles makes Boyd scent Lydia down during her free period (technically, Stiles is skipping art class right now, but ever since he blew up that thing he was making in the kiln the art teacher has encouraged his absences) so that they can ask her about her research. They find her in the computer lab, doing something mysterious with chemical formulas in one window and another project with the bestiary in the other.

“I double-checked your translation of the stiyaha page in Gerard’s bestiary.” Lydia says, marking a printout of the PDF ruthlessly in red pen. “You only kind of did a terrible job.”

“Aww, gee, thanks.” Stiles says.

“Did you find anything about why it might be killing in twelves?” Boyd asks.

“Hm.” Lydia says, pursing her lips. “For once, it seems Peter wasn't lying. The name thing is true, and it appears it's a shapeshifter, like a werewolf. I suspect the reason it kills in dozens is to retain its form.”

“What do you mean retain its form?” Stiles asks.

“It seems the _stiyaha_ wasn’t given its power, like a werewolf. It had to take it, somehow. Unsurprisingly, the Argent books don’t give much more of an explanation than that. But I think that he has to kill twelve people in a ritual to solidify his power for a longer time.”

“So we stop the killings, we stop his ability to transform.” Boyd says with a nod. “Good, so we can just put him in jail. We don’t have to kill him.”

“Yeah.” Lydia says. “But if we have to, we’ll kill him.”

Danny walks by and stares.

“A game we’re playing!” Stiles says. “Ha!”  

“Sure.” Danny says. “Theoretically, if one were planning to have a kegger in the woods tonight-”

“I would reschedule.” Boyd says.

“Yeah, got it.” Danny says.

 

* * *

 

“I hate you all.” Stiles says. “Over and out.”

“You don’t have to say over and out every time you stop talking, Stiles.” Derek’s voice says. They’re technically using the app that makes them able to use their phones as walkie-talkies, because they’re proper 21st century crime fighting teenagers, but if Stiles has to be tromping around the woods at midnight he’s going to at least get to use the proper lingo, dammit.

“What if we talk over each other, Derek?” Stiles says. “What if because I didn’t say roger back to you I didn’t hear the lifesaving information and then I died? It’s freezing out here, by the way, guys. Over.”

The growl comes through just fine.

“Roger.” Stiles says sulkily. “You guys better be in position.”

“We’re here.” Allison says. “I’m in the trees, and no one would be able to see me until it was too late. Over.”

“One, you’re terrifying.” Stiles says. “Also, thanks for using the lingo.”

“Stiles, do it.” Lydia says. “You’re right, it is cold out here, and this jacket cost a thousand dollars, so it doesn’t actually do anything.”

“Fine.” Stiles says. “Stiyaha. Stiyaha. This isn’t working, he’s not Beetlejui- _ahh!_ ” He yelps as Mr. Bigfoot himself makes an appearance.

Mr. Bigfoot, if not a werewolf, seems just as skilled at the looming thing. He’s standing at the edge of the clearing, just watching. His orangish eyes watch Stiles closely. The one that Boyd had gotten with his claws is swollen and nasty-looking. Stiles would be surprised if he could see out of it.

“That was impossibly fast.” Stiles says. “And I am now terrified.”

Mr. Bigfoot takes a lurching step forward.

“Not creepy at all.” Stiles says, taking a step back. Bigfoot takes a step forward. Stiles takes another step back. Bigfoot steps forward. Stiles takes a step back, and then another, and then starts to turn so he can run away. He stumbles a little and runs, picking up speed.

He can hear Mr. Bigfoot behind him, getting closer and breaths coming in little bursts with growls thrown in for flavor and that little _je ne sais quoi_ that makes all of their villains so disturbing.

Stiles skids to a stop and turns around.

Bigfoot advances, and Stiles reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a dark jar. He upends it, dark ash spitting out onto the ground in an inexplicably perfect circle. Bigfoot stands alone in the middle of it.

“Ha, _sucker._ ” Stiles said, and pulled out his phone. “Got him. Over.”

Werewolves emerge from the woods, melting out of the shadows like the creepers they truly, truly are inside.

Mr. Bigfoot takes a step forward, and stumbles off the barrier.

“Hmm.” Lydia says, looking at the circle of mountain ash. “Adequate.”

“Don't you mean, _Stiles, you're the best and we all take you for granted?_ ” Stiles says, stepping a little closer to the barrier to get a better look. Bigfoot lunges for him and Scott hauls him back by the collar of his hoodie.

“Good job, dude.” He says placatingly.  

Stiles and Scott high-five, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“Get out of our territory.” He growls, getting right up in the stiyaha’s face. Seeing a werewolf getting all up in Bigfoot’s grill is definitely not something Stiles ever imagined seeing, but it’s actually kind of terrifying.  

Bigfoot doesn’t reply, just huffs a breath of smelly air into their faces. Scott and Derek’s eyes both bleed red.

Stiles backs up, bumping into Boyd’s large, leather-covered bulk. “There's pretty good chance this goes bad, huh?”

“Yes.” Boyd says calmly.

“You’re supposed to say _no!_ ” Stiles hisses.

Boyd shrugs.

The stiyaha glares at Derek, seemingly determined not to negotiate.

“You’re trapped in there.” Allison says. Her bow is drawn back all the way and is held steady. Stiles knows that takes a lot of strength, and Stiles is well aware of how deadly she can be with that if she wants to be. “There’s no escape for you except to ally yourself with us.”

Bigfoot lifts up a corner of his mouth, revealing a row of razor-sharp teeth. It looks almost like he’s… laughing?

The stiyaha drops down onto four legs and hisses, his back arching. Everyone takes an involuntary step back, unsettled.

“Um-” Scott says, and Bigfoot drops to the ground, totally human.

And totally naked.

“Dude, get some sweatpants or something!” Stiles yells, lifting up a hand to cover his eyes, though he doesn’t drop his baseball bat with the other. “The Hulk does it, you can definitely do it too. Gross!”

Erica snickers from somewhere off to the side, but when Stiles cautiously uncovers his eyes, the tips of Scott’s ears are red and Derek is resolutely _not_ looking at the man on the ground.

Bigfoot, or, well, Human Bigfoot, lifts his head up and smiles, still more beast than human.

“You still can’t get out of there.” Jackson tells him, bored. He examines his claws for better effect. “Even when we’re in human form, the mountain ash still stops us.”

“It stops _werewolves._ ” Lydia says, slowly, as Bigfoot rises to his feet. The eye that Boyd had gotten is just as gruesome in human form, stretched from his forehead and disappearing into his ear. “But the stiyaha gets its power from people, not from within itself.”

“So when it’s human…” Erica says.

Mr. Bigfoot steps out of the circle.

“Let me just let you know,” Stiles says, “That I really, _really_ hate you guys.”

 

* * *

 

Boyd backs up as Bigfoot steps out of the mountain ash circle. Apparently, when he’s human, he’s really, _really_ human. Also, still naked.

Which is disturbing.

Allison lets loose her arrow -- Boyd knows exactly how deadly and precise she can be with it -- and it hits him in the shoulder.

The stiyaha growls, and within a blink, it’s back into the form of a beast. The arrow sticks out around flesh and fur, and it doesn’t seem to be bothering him much.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Stiles says under his breath.

Though Boyd shares the opinion of everyone who’s ever met Stiles -- that he talks too much -- he kind of has to agree.

Derek leaps forward and tackles Bigfoot. They both go down, but Derek is definitely on the losing side of things, at least until Boyd and the rest of the pack jump into the fray. Then it’s a bloody mess of claws and snarls. Bigfoot outclasses all of them, even Derek and Scott, and Allison can’t seem to get a shot with her crossbow in among the confusion. She’s hacking away with a knife, and Boyd can even see Stiles merrily whacking with his bat.

With a huge growl, the stiyaha throws Boyd off him, and Erica goes next, followed by Isaac. Then they’re all on the ground, wide-eyed and panting, as Bigfoot draws himself back up to his full height and looms over them.

Bigfoot snarls. “You thought you could beat me.” He says, a thick growl in his voice. Uh-oh, he’s going for the dramatic villain monologue. They always seem to go for that -- Peter talks like that when he’s just asking someone to pass the salt. “I ripped my power from the hands of others, not like you _werewolves,_ not like you weak-”

Bigfoot makes a surprised squeak and looks at the needle sticking out of his chest.

“Wha-” Bigfoot sounds surprised.

Lydia smirks. “Can’t see out of the right eye.” She says. “Blind spot. You never saw me coming. Good job, Boyd.”

“It’s just a needle.” Bigfoot says, but he sounds uncertain.

“A needle filled with mountain ash.” Lydia says.

“Should keep you down for a while, and, as a bonus, stop the whole ritual killing thing.” Stiles pauses. “Or, like, I guess you _could_ still ritually kill people, but it’s not going to help. You’re never gonna be a stiyaha again.”

Bigfoot slumps to the ground.

He transforms into a human again.

A _naked_ human.

Sigh.

 

* * *

 

“Uh, Sheriff?” One of the Sheriff’s new deputies sticks her head in his office door, looking uncertain.

The Sheriff looks up from his work, wondering why the hell there are so many animal attacks in Beacon Hills. “Yeah?”

“There’s, um, a guy outside.”

The Sheriff raises an eyebrow. “A guy?”

“He’s- You’d better come look.”

The Sheriff lifts his eyes up to the ceiling and literally prays that it’s not his son, Scott, or _his son_. He’s not above begging.

The deputy leads him outside, to where a very miserable-looking man is sitting on the steps of the station, mouth and arms duct-taped (with pink duct tape) in front of him. One of his eyes looks kind of like it’s been clawed or something, but he doesn’t look that bothered by it, just annoyed. He’s bleeding from a few other places that seem to have been patched up with character band-aids, and, again, looks more indignant at the situation than anything. There’s a sign taped to his chest: I AM A MURDERER :( PLZ TAKE ME TO JAIL.

He’s also wrapped in what appears to be a pair of too-small Beacon Hills High sweatpants, and, other than that, completely naked.

The Sheriff sighs.

 

* * *

 

“You guys.” Stiles says. “Mulder and Scully would be so proud of us right now.”

“I can’t believe Bigfoot is real.” Erica says. “I don’t want to think about what else might be real.”

There’s silence for a moment, before everyone shrugs and continues digging into their meals. A while ago they found a shady 24-hour diner that doesn’t seem to care about a bunch of scratched-up teenagers, and it’s been their go-to-spot ever since. Stiles’ bat sits leaned on the booth by his foot, and he pats it contentedly.

“We should have taken a video of Bigfoot.” Jackson says. “We’d be rich.”

“You’re already rich.” Scott says.

“We could have completely decimated the field of cryptozoology.” Lydia says. “Except that we’re trying to keep the supernatural secret.”

“We could have won, like, a million photo contests.” Stiles says sadly. “We’d be _really_ rich. Stupid Bigfoot.”

“We _could_ have done that, or we could have stopped a supernatural creature from killing twelve people.” Derek says. He’s such a party pooper.

“Party pooper.” Stiles mutters.

“Well, we caught Bigfoot.” Boyd says. “That counts for something.”

“It sure does, Boyd.” Stiles says, and holds out a fist for a fist-bump. Boyd rolls his eyes, but complies. Boyd is the best bro ever.

They all eat for a while longer, content to refuel after a grueling fight.

There’s silence for a while.

“...Do you guys think Santa is real?” Erica asks.

 

* * *

 

Stiles snags his keys out of his pocket and heads for his Jeep, humming a little under his breath. Something slams up in front of him, and he stumbles.

“Samantha!” He says, clutching his heart. “Have you been taking lessons from your brother? You scared me.”

Samantha narrows her eyes at him. “Did my brother stay the night at your place last night?”

“Yep.” Stiles says automatically, mind already racing. It’s been a few days since Bigfoot, and there hadn’t, for once, been any supernatural emergencies recently, but he never underestimates the ability of any of the werewolves to get into trouble. Or the humans, either. Stiles’ life is basically one episode of getting into trouble after another.

“Really.” Samantha says. “Because last night, Vernon was sitting on my couch watching _Project Runway.”_

 “Oh.” Stiles says. “Uhh.”

Then, because apparently Samantha is as unpredictable as a werewolf without even being one, she grins hugely. “You really are his friend!”

“Uh.” Stiles says. “Wha- _why?_ ”

Samantha grabs his shoulder in a friendly yet crushing grip. “Everyone knows that the true hallmark of friendship in teenagers is being willing to lie about your friend’s whereabouts at the drop of a hat.”

“Thanks?” Stiles says. “I’m kinda offended you didn’t believe me till now, though. I’m pretty sure if Boyd was to hire a fake friend, he’d hire a more respectable one than me.”

“That’s true.” Sam says.

“Yeah, I  kno- hey!”

Sam smirks, then her face changes into something almost soft. “My brother has friends.” She says. “Is he okay? He's seemed weird lately.”

“Besides when we're doing drugs together and knocking over mailboxes?” Stiles says, and withers under her glare. “Totally kidding! Honestly, Boyd is the most responsible dude I know. So, like, don’t worry about him.” They’d probably all be dead without Boyd, and that is not an exaggeration.

“Good.” Sam says. “Come over for dinner tomorrow night.”

Stiles beams and shoots her a thumbs-up.

She melts back into the shadows (so like her brother), and Stiles grins and shoots off a text to Boyd.

_Your sister loves me so your family is mine now_

_No it isn’t._

_Yes it is im coming to thanksgiving_

_No you’re not_

_Yes i am and this is all your fault with your romcom meddling haha_

His phone doesn’t vibrate with an answer as he pulls up to his house (he _might_ have been texting and driving, but if you asked his dad, he definitely wasn’t). Stiles shrugs and heads upstairs, starting to tear down the rest of the Bigfoot research from his walls.

He’s rolling up the Bigfoot poster and putting it in a file box labelled _Foot, Big_ to go in his closet next to the one with the mermaid research when he hears a weird thrum of music.

Puzzled, he goes to his window and opens it, looking around the street below. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t _actually_ see what he thinks he sees, but, like, he thinks he’s seeing it.

“What. _Boo._ ” He hisses. “Boyd, please tell me you’re not outside my window with a boombox right now.”

Boyd says nothing except for an evil-looking smirk. On the boombox, Peter Gabriel says _in your eyes I am complete._

“Where did you even get a boombox?” Stiles asks, grinning, leaning an elbow on the windowsill. “Do they even still sell boomboxes?”

“Don’t ask.” Boyd says mysteriously.

“We never even had a cliche breakup.” Stiles says. “Like I should have found you being a bro with another guy, or something, and it turns out it was unsolicited bro-ing. One-sided bro-ing.”

 _In your eyes,_ the radio sings.

“Fine, I’ll take you back.” Stiles says. “But just so you know, you should have come here in the rain.”

Boyd grins, shutting off the jukebox and jumping into Stiles’ window with one leap. “You’re mixing tropes.”

“Yeah, probably would have ruined the boombox anyway.” Stiles says. “Want to pretend to be normal and play video games?”

Boyd sets the radio down. “Sure.”

“Hold that thought.” Stiles says, feeling his phone buzz against his pocket.

It's Scott. _Do u think the loc ness monster is real????!!??? If so how do we kill???_

Another buzz.

_On a related note i def need medical attention :(_

“On second thought.” Stiles says.


End file.
